


Too Good to be True

by jeanniemckay



Series: One Day At A Time [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Mycroft, Gen, Mycroft Angst, Mycroft's not okay, sherlock is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28241916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanniemckay/pseuds/jeanniemckay
Summary: Mycroft gives in after the disaster of the Coventry conundrum. [Set during SCANDAL]
Series: One Day At A Time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068812
Kudos: 7





	Too Good to be True

**Author's Note:**

> So I've decided to turn One Day at a Time into a little series, but this is just a little short snippet of how I believe Mycroft fell back into drinking. It's set before 'One Day at a Time', but you can read in any order. As always thank you for reading! - JM.
> 
> P.S. the Talisker is just a little nod to Cabin Pressure, I couldn't resist.

There had always been a bottle of Talisker kept in the drinks cabinet. Even when all other bottles had been thrown out, their contents unceremoniously dumped down sinks and toilet bowls, the Talisker had stayed. It hadn’t been particularly difficult to ensure it missed the cull. Gregory and Anthea had been efficient but even his PA wasn’t aware of all his hiding places, especially not within his own home. For a time it had remained squirreled away; out of sight and out of mind. Even when the cravings reached fever pitch it remained untouched.

After several months, once the initial danger had passed, he had retrieved it and locked it in the cabinet. Perhaps it had been a moronic idea, more equal to some of his colleagues within the civil service than himself, but he’d seen it as almost a test. If he could have had the forbidden fruit, so to speak, within his grasp throughout those weeks of cold sweats, cramps and insomnia and not take a bite, then it was evidence enough that his self-control was up to the task. It was proof that this had not beaten him; that it _would not_ beat him.

For years it had sat there innocently enough, barely visible through the tinted glass. On occasion he would take out the key from atop the mantelpiece, place it into the lock and open the patterned oak doors, he would reach in carefully to pull the bottle from its lonely place amongst the empty decanters and crystal glasses. His fingers would skim over the label briefly before moving up to the seal, he would run his thumb over the untampered wax and normality would be restored. It would go back to its prison, locked away once more.

Over time he’d found it became easier to ignore the siren call; during late-night meetings with the PM he could easily wave away the offer of a quick brandy to fight away the cold, during the odd business lunch he could turn his wine glass upside down with the excuse of work to finish which required a clear head, even when he was forced into legwork he had crafted his excuses and outs. Naturally there were times when it became more difficult, when his throat felt thick, his mouth parched and his whole body seeming to cry out for just one drop, however thankfully he had been able to bury himself in work until the feeling passed.

Sherlock had proved a valuable distraction as well; he could lock the drink in the cabinet in his mind as he kept tabs on his little brother. Sherlock’s move to London had been tumultuous to say the least, his fall into addiction naturally more dramatic than Mycroft’s own. The last overdose had passed some time ago, the last stint in rehab seemed to have had some sort of effect and after some gentle persuasion the good Inspector had allowed him officially onto a few crime scenes. Perhaps Sherlock had not been a distraction, but a vicarious recovery. As he grew and flourished so did Mycroft, in a sense.

Perhaps he should have realised that it was, as the saying goes, too good to be true. Doctor Watson’s introduction to the whirlwind that was his brother was…interesting. The fact that he could seemingly ‘handle’ Sherlock’s many changing moods and with only the occasional fracas was impressive. However, the detective’s need to show off, to impress his new companion was obvious and Mycroft knew, if left unchecked, would only lead to trouble.

Alas, he did not check _enough_.

It was the failure of their Coventry plan which seemingly pushed him over the edge. The news reached him swiftly, as it always did; he’d been sat in an armchair, staring into a roaring fire and his blood had seemingly run cold. It had been a seemingly perfect plan, ingenious if he did say so himself, and yet it had been foiled so simply.

There had been no thought in his actions, his brain had seemingly slipped into autopilot – he must have finished the call, perhaps issued a few last minute orders to begin the firefighting but he couldn’t begin to remember what they were. His body must have moved of its own accord, dragging him from the chair in the living room to the drawing room. He barely registered the cool metal of the key in his palm, or the scrape of the lock of the cabinet.

This should have been a simple, well-organised mission. He had been involved in it from conception to ensure mistakes were not made, to ensure this did not happen! Yet he had not counted on emotions, or their effect on his brother. He should have been more wary, he should have broken off the contact between Sherlock and Ms. Adler when it began. He had ignored his better judgement and had simply believed that Sherlock would, like himself, be immune to the siren call of sentiment, how could he have been so naïve?

The crack of the wax seal seemed to echo around the room. It should have been a warning, it should have brought him out of his self-recrimination and made him pause, but instead he felt his mouth water. Already he could taste the mix of sweet and smoke on his tongue, his throat practically itched with the desire for that familiar burn as the whiskey slipped down.

Amber liquid glinted in a glass he didn’t remember setting on the table, the bottle was set neatly next to it, the lid left off. For the first time he seemed to come back to himself, his breathing quickened as sweat beaded on his forehead. This was hardly the most sensible of actions. He could simply pour the drink back into the bottle and leave. He could walk the length of the city if he had to, to ignore the sudden pounding in his head, the voice which screamed at him to just take a sip. Work had never affected him like this, he had experienced problems before and moved on.

Except work was not the tipping point, he thought bitterly. No, that special place was held for Sherlock. His little brother. As always. Sherlock’s involvement, Sherlock’s ruination were what had driven him here.

Mycroft reached out a hand, his whole arm seemed to tremble as he grasped the glass and lifted it. He should have done more to ensure Sherlock was kept out of this whole affair. He should have found another way to distract him, or perhaps found a way to decrease Ms. Adler’s hold over his brother. Instead he had grown lenient and reliant on Doctor Watson. He had assumed Sherlock’s new acquaintance would be able to keep him in check. That had been a miscalculation.

The sweetness hit his tongue, bouncing off his taste buds before being replaced by pepper and smoke. His eyes closed instinctively and he felt himself drop into the nearest chair. He savoured the first sip, rolling it around before he let it slide down his throat. The warmth seemed to flair in him instantly, settling heavy in his stomach. His hand stopped shaking.


End file.
